The mercenaries did not flee, instead they watched.
Steel rang and blood steamed on broken stone and the men who had moments ago screamed now leaned forward like spectators at a pit fight. Some climbed rubble for a better view. Others pounded weapon hafts against shields. Crude cheers rose and fell as the two figures faced one another.
The Marauder stepped fully into the light.
He was smaller than Ventren—six feet to Ventren's towering seven—but he carried himself like a man who did not need size. His black brigandine bore scorch marks and old dents, each earned. His helm, the infamous red houndskull wrought into snarling iron, tilted slightly as if amused.
One of his arms was no longer flesh as plates riveted together, pistons and braces locking into place at shoulder and elbow. It moved with a faint mechanical whine, imperfect but functional. Ventren remembered breaking it—remembered the crunch of bone around a month ago.
Apparently, the Marauder remembered too.
"Well, Sir Ventren the Immovable," the Marauder said mockingly, fire licking along the claymore's length, "I've heard of your exploits, other than what you did to me."
Ventren set his stance, axe held low, shoulders square. "You should've left this life when I killed half your men."
The mercenaries went silent for a moment then suddenly cheered.
Firelight danced across the ruins, reflecting off Ventren's horned helm. He felt the familiar calm settle in—the one that always came before violence. He had fought men like this all his life.
The Marauder raised his burning sword in a lazy salute. He moved first—not with a charge, but a feint. The claymore came in high, fire roaring as it carved an arc meant to draw Ventren's guard upward. Ventren took the bait for half a heartbeat—then adjusted, stepping inside the swing and bringing his axe up to meet his sword.
The impact rang like a bell.
Heat washed over Ventren's armor. The fire was real—not illusion, not trickery. Alchemical oil fed the flames, clinging to the blade, shedding sparks with every movement.
The Marauder retreated already, boots skidding over loose stone, drawing Ventren after him. Ventren pressed, axe chopping, forcing the smaller man back toward a collapsed wall.
That was when the ground betrayed him.
Loose rubble shifted under Ventren's weight. His foot slipped—only an inch, only a moment—but the Marauder capitalized instantly. Fire surged forward as the claymore slammed into Ventren's side, not cutting through plate but burning hot enough to sear through padding beneath.
Ventren grunted and rolled with the blow, coming up hard.
The Marauder laughed. "I know I can't beat you in a fair duel. Therefore—"
Ventren swung wide, then reversed mid-motion, axe head snapping back toward the Marauder's exposed flank. The blow should have caved ribs.
Instead, fire bloomed again.
The Marauder twisted, bringing the burning blade down to intercept. The heat forced Ventren back—not the blow, but the flame. The Marauder used it like terrain, denying space, shaping the fight.
He kicked a brazier over as he retreated further. Flaming coals spilled across the ground, forcing Ventren to divert, to step where the Marauder allowed him to step. Fire spread greedily, licking at dry grass, canvas and old wood.
Ventren realized too late what was happening.
The Marauder was herding him. Ventren lunged, trying to end it with one decisive strike—an overhead chop but the Marauder vanished beneath it. He rolled, came up behind Ventren, and drove the burning claymore into the gap beneath Ventren's arm. The blade did not pierce cleanly—but it burned the chainmail.
Ventren roared, pain flaring white-hot.
The mercenaries screamed in delight.
Ventren staggered, forced down to one knee as the Marauder wrenched the blade free. Fire crawled along Ventren's armor, smoke rising.
"You fight like a wall," the Marauder said, circling. "Not so scary, are you now?"
Ventren surged up anyway.
He caught the next swing on the haft of his axe and shoved forward with brute force, slamming his shoulder into the Marauder's chest. The impact sent both men crashing into a stone pillar.
Stone cracked as the Marauder snarled as his back hit hard. Ventren brought his axe up—
—and fire flared directly into his visor.
Ventren recoiled instinctively which was all the Marauder needed.
The claymore came around in a clean, practiced arc, hot iron cleaving through chainmail.
Ventren felt the world separate.
There was no pain at first—only the sudden, impossible sensation of falling away from himself. The sky spun as his vision twisted and turned and his body dropped out of view.
His head struck the ground and rolled.
Cheers erupted from the mercenaries. "Fuck that royal whoreson!"
"Ha! Knew the bastard would fall! No match for boss!"
The Marauder stood over Ventren's body, chest heaving. He raised the burning claymore and planted a boot against the armored corpse, striking a victorious pose for the mercenaries.
He spat, the glob struck Ventren's breastplate and slid down into ash.
"Finally, damn." the Marauder said, turning away.
Behind him—
—the body moved.
It rose, headless.
Blood did not pour as it should have. Instead, black flame curled from the severed neck, coiling like smoke. The corpse's hands closed around nothing—then reached down. Ventren's headless body picked up its own head. Gauntleted fingers gripped horn and helm which then tucked it beneath his arm like a shield.
Then as he howled the sky turned black.
The sound did not come from lungs or throat. It tore itself out of the empty air where his head should have been—a fiery wail layered with echoes. A ghastly, bloodcurdling tune.
The mercenaries broke as the men screamed and ran, dropping weapons, scrambling over one another to flee the ruins. Some fell to their knees, babbling prayers. Others ran blind into the forest.
The Marauder turned slowly.
His confidence wavered for the first time.
"…You monster," he muttered.
Ventren advanced. The Marauder snarled and raised his sword again, fire roaring back to life as he swung. Ventren did not dodge as he tanked the sword slices, his axe crashing down again and again, forcing the Marauder back through flame and falling canvas.
The Marauder kicked over a lantern which ignited tents. Fire swallowed the ruins, heat roaring, smoke choked the air. The Marauder backed toward the largest tent, flame reflecting in his houndskull helm.
"Come on!" he shouted. "Come die again, you beast!"
It was getting difficult for the Marauder to breathe, yet he endured.
They clashed again—fire and steel, axe and flame. Ventren's blows were still devastating, but the Marauder danced just out of reach, using burning debris, smoke and collapsing poles to disrupt every advance.
Then, gradually—
—the fire waned.
The claymore's flames sputtered, shrinking, finally dying altogether. Oil dripped uselessly from the blade.
The Marauder noticed, his breathing quickened. "…Fucking hell."
He made a decision.
"Maybe next time, Monster."
With one powerful swing of his prosthetic arm, he tore down the burning tent pole above him. Canvas collapsed in a roaring cascade of fire and smoke, crashing between them.
Ventren hacked through it blindly, roaring—
—but the Marauder was already gone.
Ventren emerged from the burning wreckage moments later, flames crawling along his armor, smoke pouring from his severed neck.
He roared again—furious—
—and stopped.
Gwendolyn stood at the edge of the ruins.
She had freed the slaves and had turned back upon witnessing the flames, and now she stared at him.
Headless, carrying his own helm, still standing.
Her crossbow slipped from her hands and hit the dirt. She then instinctively rested her hand upon her sword hilt.
"Ventren…?" she whispered.